


the only safety net i need (is you)

by ellievolia



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Boxing & Fisticuffs, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-15
Updated: 2011-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-26 02:53:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/277871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellievolia/pseuds/ellievolia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which they prepare for a job where Eames will have to be a boxer, and Arthur objectifies him a bit. In his head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the only safety net i need (is you)

**Author's Note:**

> This is not long, and it's mostly me indulging in my usual kink, as in, boxing, handwraps, things like that. Also, this is my first Inception fic, and I am terrified.

Arthur stops dead in his tracks, his fingers tightening around the handle of his briefcase. He doesn’t have anything left to do in the warehouse, but as he looks ahead, he is unable to tear his eyes away. He should leave, he _should_ , get some rest before the job gets really underway.

But he’s frozen in place, his heart beating asynchronous against the sound of Eames’ fists hitting the punching bag hanging from the ceiling. Somehow, it feels surreal to Arthur, a snapshot of their upcoming job in front of him, chairs scattered around, Ariadne’s models on one side, Yusuf’s makeshift lab on another, and Eames in the middle of it all.

It’s just the way it happened, after Cobb faded out. And Arthur would never admit it, but the way Eames approaches jobs and life with humor and enthusiasm is keeping Arthur on his toes, keeping him _interested_. He’s been focused on keeping Cobb from destroying everything they’ve ever worked for, and now Arthur is rediscovering that, sometimes, as highly illegal and dangerous their lives are, they can also be _fun_. How they can be so much larger than life.

It’s been five months since Cobb went back to the US and to his children, and this is the fourth job they’ve pulled together, this exact same team with Eames as their extractor, and it’s almost like nothing changed even if _everything_ had.

The mark, this time, is one Herbert Hunter, CEO of Hunter & James, NY, lawyers and associates. Their client, an old judge with suspicious thoughts, wanted to know who exactly Hunter was paying off to win his cases, not even doubting for a single second that the man was corrupt. And Hunter was surprisingly easy to research - he was crazy about boxing, about _boxers_. It had made Eames grin.

Arthur can’t see if he is grinning now, Eames’ back to him, but he has seen Eames work out before, the focus on his face almost dangerous, so far away from a smile it made him look thoroughly _different_. Arthur’s eyes shift back up along Eames’ body.

Eames’ thin grey wifebeater is dark in places as he moves around, feet noiselessly shuffling across the floor, wrapped up fists hitting the punching bag in front of him with muted sounds, his breathing still even, while Arthur’s eyes follows the path of a drop of moisture down the nape of his neck. Eames is going for combinations that Arthur knows, high high uppercut low low low low, his muscles shifting and rolling under the skin of his arms and shoulders, shiny with a sheen of sweat over tattoos. Arthur licks his lips and breathes through his nose, ignoring the way goosebumps rise over his forearms as his eyes travel south, and Eames is wearing sweatpants that are clinging to him _just so_ , accentuating curves and movement in a way that makes Arthur tilt his head.

Arthur doesn’t like to admit it, not even to himself, but Eames - Eames is as gorgeous as he is infuriating.

A side step and a look up have Arthur discovered, and Eames stops moving, bending to dry his forehead with the hem of his shirt, making Arthur’s stomach bottom out. He’s seen Eames in various states of undress in the past, but Arthur is pretty sure he’ll never get used to the punch of want in his gut every time he sees more of Eames’ skin than is strictly required in their relationship; colleagues, teammates at best. His eyes trail along the glimpse of taut muscles and the lines of defined hipbones, the hair disappearing under the waistband of Eames’ sweatpants. And then it’s gone, the shirt back in place, and Arthur’s eyes snap up.

Eames offers him a smile, like he’s known all along Arthur was here, getting an eyeful. Arthur clenches his jaw with an audible click, and he’s gritting his teeth together so hard it hurts.

“Arthur. Mind giving us a hand here, darling?”

Arthur has a dozen cutting replies at the tip of his tongue, but he deflates quickly - this is for a job, and Eames needs this, needs to look the part for it to work. So Arthur nods curtly, cursing himself for not leaving when he could, and drops his briefcase on a nearby chair as he steps closer, draping his jacket over the arm of the same chair. He takes his time undoing his cufflinks and rolling his sleeves to his elbows, so very conscious of Eames’ eyes on him as he does that he swallows hard.

Planting his feet apart next to the punching bag, Arthur takes a hold of it, giving Eames another nod once he’s got a good grip. Now Arthur is in the perfect position to observe Eames’ face as he throws punches, the tight line of his lips, the focused, dark look in his eyes, the hair falling over his forehead. Arthur takes the hard hits, barely ever staggering back, keeping the punching bag from swaying too hard, allowing Eames to land a series of quick-fire stomach sucker punches that make Arthur feel very glad he is not the projection Eames will fight in the dream.

Arthur loses track of time, lost in the lines of Eames’ tattoos and the rhythm of his punches. The way Eames’ muscles shift and the way he keeps on moving around, keeping his feet light and quick, turn into a dance with which Arthur is fascinated, unable to look away. His eyes meet Eames’ every so often, a smile tugging at the corners of Eames’ mouth every time he catches Arthur staring, and fuck it, Arthur doesn’t even feel ashamed of it.

But when Eames puts his hands back up close to his face, in an upright stance, Arthur spots the blood right away.

“Okay, stop,” Arthur says, stepping around the punching bag fast enough that Eames looks dazed, in the middle of a punch that Arthur stops, curling his smaller hand around Eames’. He almost recoils with the strength of Eames’ hit but he holds on, his eyes narrowing as he tightens his hold, knowing he’ll be bruised in the morning. He ignores the pain of the punch he took the brunt of, keeping as straight a face as he can.

“What the hell, Arthur!” For a split second here, Eames looks scared, and it makes something self-satisfied twitch inside Arthur as he pulls away, focusing back on the state of Eames’ hands.

“Look at your hands!” Both of Eames’ handwraps are spotty with blood, which leads Arthur to conclude said handwraps were not tight enough, allowing friction against Eames’ knuckles. Eames is now looking down at his hands, his eyes surprised. They don’t need him to injure himself when he’s key to getting info from Hunter.

“Look, I get it, but you’re not doing anyone any good by going too far.” Arthur’s voice is softer than he’d like, and he lifts his chin when Eames looks up at him, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “You should clean yourself up.”

Eames’ lips twitch up into a smirk. “You’re not going to offer to help?”

Arthur _wants_ to. He wants to cradle Eames’ hands in his own and clean up his battered knuckles, and it says so much about Arthur he has to turn away, going for his jacket and briefcase. He’s not quite ready to admit just how much it turns him on.

“Nope.”


End file.
